


Whither Thou Goest

by travels_in_time



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travels_in_time/pseuds/travels_in_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John won't leave Sherlock, no matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whither Thou Goest

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt at the BBC!Sherlock ficmeme. There's nothing graphic in the story, but the subject matter may be triggery. Please see the prompt for details.
> 
> Prompt: _I have this image of John, sitting on the edge of a roof of some tall building, considering whether or not he should lean forward - let himself drop and let it all end. And then Sherlock finds him, sits down beside - and considers the same thing. Neither of them are all that happy - neither have been dealt that great a hand in life - and it would be so easy to just fall. And yet, they both know - whatever they decide, the other will follow them, back them up._
> 
>  _THIS IS IMPORTANT - that loyalty leads both of them to decide to keep on living. Please do not make them fall._
> 
> It actually came out the other way around; it's Sherlock on the edge, and John who finds him.

Sherlock hears the door open, and then the sound of someone crossing the roof behind him. He doesn't turn; he knows the footsteps. They pause at the barrier, and then there's a slight grunting sound. He does turn then, eyes widening, as John swings himself over the barrier. "John, _no_ , what are you--"

John finds his footing, sits down beside him on the ledge very carefully indeed. "What, I can't enjoy the view with you?"

He gets his voice under control with an effort. "Go back."

"No, I don't think I will." John leans forward slightly to peer down, and Sherlock reaches out for him reflexively, pulling him backwards. "And it is a nice view. Does it help?"

Sherlock means to yell at him, to make him go _away_ , to keep him safe. The question sidetracks him. John is constantly doing that, surprising him. "Does it help what?"

John casts a quick look at him. "Does it help you decide? When you look out over the city? What do you see?"

He sees shining buildings and crumbling factories. New construction rising up and ruined buildings falling to abandonment and vandalism. Nothing truly changes, the circles just go round and round. As many crimes as he solves, as many criminals as he puts away, there will always be more. There are always weak people, and there are always those willing to prey on them.

Most of the time that's a reassuring thought. As long as there are criminals, there's something for him to do, something for his mind to occupy itself with.

Some days, though, the endless cycle weighs down on him. He's not a good man, he knows, not like John. He does good things, sometimes; at least, things that society classes as "good". Catches murderers, finds blackmailers. But it doesn't matter. Others will take their place and the puzzles that he solves are just that, puzzles with no importance and no significance to anyone. When he looks out over the city, he sees the sheer meaninglessness of everything he's ever done.

John's hand finds his arm, brings him back to the moment. "Sherlock?"

He flinches. He doesn't want to be touched; doesn't want to hear his name, especially not spoken by John. Those are ties to this world, and he needs them broken.

Finally, answering John's question, he says, "I've already decided."

John sighs. "Okay. So we're taking the shortcut down."

"There's no 'we'," he snaps. "You shouldn't be here."

He can feel John giving him one of his "you're an idiot" looks. "Of course I should. You're here."

"Not for much longer."

"Yeah. Well." John shifts beside him. "Say when."

The ridiculousness of this hits him, and he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, huffing out a long breath. "John. Go home. This has nothing to do with you."

"Oh, you think?" There's exasperation in John's tone, but affection lurking there as well, and Sherlock can't let himself focus on that, can't be distracted by it. "I've been following you since we met. I don't see that changing now."

Sherlock drops his hands, looks over at John for the first time. He's leaning back against the ledge, legs dangling out over several stories of nothing, and he's _smiling_ , that small half-smile he gets when he can't quite believe what he's about to do. He means it, Sherlock realizes, and the thought goes right through him with a jolt that twists his stomach violently. If Sherlock goes, John intends to go as well, and that is _wrong_.

He gropes desperately for something to say, something that will change John's mind. "Shouldn't you be trying to talk me out of this?" he demands wildly.

"Could I?"

John's voice is quiet, and Sherlock has to tell him the truth. "I don't think so, no."

John nods, as if Sherlock's just confirmed what he already knew. "When you want attention, you send rude texts to Lestrade and fight with your brother and shoot the walls. You don't sit on ledges fourteen stories up. I figure you've made your decision. But I'm not letting you go alone."

"This isn't exactly a community activity!" He's angry, now, and he doesn't quite understand why. He didn't want to be drawn into an argument, another tie that he has to snap before he can go.

John takes a deep breath. "Sherlock. I could say a lot of things to try to talk you out of this. But you're brilliant, and I can't say anything you haven't heard before. And I've lived with you long enough to see how bad it gets for you." He shakes his head. "It's not that I want you to do this. I don't." He stops for a moment, his voice catching, then continues. "God, I don't. But...I get it." His smile this time is rueful. "I mean, look at me. I was a soldier and a doctor, and now I can't be either. I can't get a proper job, I can't sleep for screaming nightmares, I'll never have a normal relationship again, and the most fun I get is chasing around after you while people try to kill me. There are days when just dragging myself out of bed is a result."

Sherlock wants to point out all the logical inconsistencies and downright untruths in John's opinion of himself, but he can't find the will or the energy. John hasn't argued with him, he thinks; he'll do him the same courtesy. "If you feel that way, I'm surprised you're still here."

"If I hadn't met you...well." John shrugs.

It amazes Sherlock that they're sitting here calmly, having this discussion. Of all the people he knows, he would have thought that John is one of the most stable. The most secure in himself. He's seen how people respond to John. John smiles, and they smile back. He listens to them, and they pour out their troubles. People respect him. They _like_ him.

It seems that that doesn't make a difference, though. When it comes down to it, John's just as adrift as Sherlock is. He doesn't want to admit how that unsettles him. He'd known that John would follow him anywhere in the world. He just hadn't realized that John would be willing to follow him out of it.

He's aware of a rising tide of uneasiness. This isn't how it's supposed to go. John is supposed to live, and smile, and find someone to have a normal life with. His health will recover and he'll be a doctor again and he'll save lives again. Sherlock had told John there weren't any heroes, but he'd lied. John was born to be a hero.

He turns to tell John this, to somehow make him realize that he has to live, that he has something worthwhile to live for. The impulse dies in his throat when he sees the weary determination in John's eyes, and he turns away. Anything he could say would be hypocritical, anyway.

"So." John's hand rests on his arm again, and he doesn't pull away this time. "Are we doing this?"

Sherlock doesn't answer immediately, and John leans forward again to look down. "Why jumping? Why not drugs, or something...less messy?"

"I have a very high tolerance to any of the drugs I could get hold of easily." That's true, but he doesn't give the other reason. _I want to know what it's like to fly. Just for a moment._ "Wouldn't want to end up brain-damaged."

"God, no, if we're doing it, let's do it properly." John glances at him, and for the first time in what seems like weeks, he feels a smile quirk the corner of his mouth up.

John grins back. "Look, I can get the right kind of drugs. If you want, I mean. I sort of had you figured for the type who'd want to leave a pretty corpse."

He opens his mouth for a retort, but his brain is suddenly overwhelmed by images of John crumpled on the pavement below, his body broken and bleeding. He's seen the crime scenes before, people who'd jumped, or been pushed. His mind fills John's face onto the bodies in his memories with horrifying accuracy.

Drugs, then. Drugs would be better. He sees a flash of John's face, white, slack, unmoving.

It won't matter, he tells himself numbly. He won't be there to see it. It won't make a difference--to him, or to John. If John Watson no longer exists in the world, neither of them will care.

 _Wrong._

He clears his throat. "John. You are determined in this course of action?"

John doesn't answer. Not in words. His hand finds its way to Sherlock's, and grips it tightly.

Sherlock simply sits, for a few minutes, and feels all the resolve he's built up about this, all the fragile peace that he'd gained, slowly draining away. Finally he asks hesitantly, "If...if I stay. Will you?"

John's hand tightens suddenly on his, but his voice is steady. "Yes. Of course. If you promise."

He opens his mouth to speak, and John says intensely, "Don't. Don't say it if you don't mean it."

Sherlock swallows, and nods. He speaks with some difficulty. "We appear to have reached an impasse."

John watches him carefully. "All right. Maybe we can compromise."

A passing breeze ruffles John's hair, and just like that, sensation returns. Sherlock can hear the sounds of the city below, can feel the chill creeping through him as the sun sets. He's very uncomfortable on the ledge, he realizes suddenly.

"Not right now," John continues, still watching him. "Right now we get off this roof, and go home, and maybe pick up some Chinese along the way. And later...well, if you decide to do this later, you tell me. Or if it's me, I'll tell you. We don't go alone, either of us."

He thinks about that. He thinks about the endless chaos of the bad days, the days when it seems that there never were any good days, will never be any good days again; weighs that against the fact of John, alive and at his side, where he belongs.

It's no contest.

"All right," he says, almost inaudibly. "I promise."

His phone vibrates when they're halfway down the steps. By the time they've reached the ground floor he's solved Lestrade's latest case via the photos Lestrade texted him, and he launches into scathing opinions on the competency of the Yard, interspersed with his theories on Anderson's parentage. John nods and solemnly agrees with everything he says, and only Sherlock sees the laughter around his eyes.

There may come a time when he can't do it anymore, when keeping John alive becomes less important to him than silencing the screaming darkness in his own head. If it does, John will be there, he knows. At his side, where he belongs.


End file.
